The Foxfire Lights

by Elizabeth O'Connell

  THE FOXFIRE LIGHTS

  Elizabeth A. O’Connell

  Text Copyright © 2016 Elizabeth A. O’Connell

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER ONE

  Until Lord Ransom arrived, it had been the dullest day of my existence. I was meant to have spent it reading a book of German folklore, at my brother’s insistence. A strange choice of reading for a boy of seventeen, to be sure, but my brother’s practice was itself rather strange. Hal was a magician, but he did not trifle with the ordinary business of binding spirits to engines and fireplaces and furnaces. No, his interests lay in the far more obscure—and dangerous—field of curse-breaking.

  But curses of the sort my brother was interested in were rather uncommon, as it happened, and since our adventure in Manchester several months before, we had found ourselves short of work. Even the occasional probate consultation had been scarce. And so Hal had set me the task of reading this tome of German folklore, on the reasoning that folklore was the basis of most magic—and he had insisted that I read it in the original German, on the reasoning that I would pay closer attention than if I were to read it in English.

  I was, at that moment, studiously ignoring my book, and staring out the window. It was a damp, drizzly sort of day in early March, and I was weighing the unpleasantness of a wet walk against the unpleasantness of continuing my slog through German fairy tales.

  “I grant that you may be clever, Jem,” Hal said drily, bringing my attention back from the window. “But surely no one has ever read a book without at least glancing at it occasionally.”

  He sat at his own desk, perpendicular to mine, rearranging the contents of his case—for roughly the fifth time in as many days. The case was filled with all the accoutrements of curse-breaking—candles, packets of herbs to ward off evil spirits, and the strong-smelling oil that Hal used in summoning spells. He was stacking the herb packets, his lean face furrowed as he stared down at them. There was a restlessness about him; it was not good for his mind to go unoccupied—particularly as, in the absence of any real work, he had taken to setting meaningless tasks for me; hence the German.

  I watched him at his task for a moment. He was tall and lean and dark, just as Father had been, where I was fairer, like our mother, and though he was only seven years my senior, there was an air about him that made him seem much older. This was due, in part, to his having cared for Father during his final illness—an illness which had seen Father lose his once-brilliant mind, and which Hal believed to have been the product of a curse. The only thing Father had left behind had been a series of notes, unintelligible riddles, drawings, and gibberish, which Hal kept in a lockbox in a drawer of his desk. I looked back down at my book, the illustration of a bear chasing a pair of terrified-looking girls through a forest, and could muster no enthusiasm for it. I shut it and shoved it aside.

  “Hal,” I said, waiting for him to look up from his endless stack of herb packets. “Why don’t we try going through Father’s notes again?”

  He furrowed his brow and closed the case with a click. “We’ve been over this. There’s nothing more to be gained from it.”

  “We’ve scarcely even tried,” I said. “We’ve only been at it for what—three months?”

  “I’ve read all those notes hundreds of times,” he said. He stood and went over to the mantel, taking down his pipe. “I could read them a hundred more. It would serve no purpose.”

  “You might have read them a hundred times,” I said, folding my arms over my chest. “I’ve scarcely seen most of them. Why are you giving up now? I thought you said . . .”

  “I’m not giving up,” he said tersely, lighting his pipe. “But we can accomplish nothing without further information.”

  I looked pointedly at the endlessly-repacked case and my book of children’s stories and raised my eyebrows. “Because presently we are accomplishing so very much.”

  He frowned at me, but before he could make a reply, we were interrupted by a knock at the study door. Mrs. Evans, the landlady, entered with a card in hand.

  “A Lord Ransom to see you, sir,” she said, handing the card to Hal.

  Hal directed her to send our visitor up, and she left the room, shutting the door behind her. Hal turned the card over in his hands, pipe smoke curling about his head.

  “Lord Ransom,” he said. “Well, this is something. What could he want?”

  “Wasn’t it Lord Ransom’s father that sponsored the Railroad Act?” I said. “Put aether-engines into all the trains. Perhaps he’s come to talk to you about that.”

  Hal scowled around his pipe. “I certainly hope not. I’ve been clear enough about my feelings on industrial magic.”

  There was another knock, and Lord Ransom entered the room, carrying a long, thin package wrapped in paper. He looked every inch the English country gentleman—tall and tweed-suited, with sandy hair greying at the temples, and pair of sharp grey eyes in a lean face. He would have been quite at home shooting grouse on the moors, or seated before a roaring fire in a library, surrounded by dogs—but here in our study, carrying his package, he looked ill at ease.

  Hal directed him to a chair by the fireplace, and Lord Ransom took a seat, laying his curious burden down on the tea table in front of him. Hal settled himself opposite Lord Ransom in Father’s old wingback chair, leaning back and puffing at his pipe. Lord Ransom sat stiffly in his chair, sharp grey eyes fixed watchfully on Hal. Hal made our introductions and Lord Ransom acknowledged me with a curt nod. He turned back to Hal, clearing his throat.

  “You might know that I’m a bit of a collector,” he said. His voice was hoarse, and he cleared his throat again. “Of magical objects, I mean. It’s a bit of an avocation of mine.”

  “Yes, I had heard that,” Hal said, leaning back in his chair. “What can I do for you?”

  Lord Ransom leaned forward and unwrapped the parcel, revealing an odd-looking walking stick—fashioned from a thorny, knobby wood with a large knot at its top. “This is my latest acquisition. A friend sent it to me from Ireland, but he knows little of magic and could tell me nothing about the spell on it.”

  Hal stood, taking up the stick and balancing it in his hands. “Then you want an appraisal?”

  At Lord Ransom’s nod, Hal turned to me, holding out the stick. “I hope you don’t mind my testing my apprentice a bit.”

  Lord Ransom shook his head. I took the stick from Hal; it was heavier than it looked, but as I handled it, I had the sensation of a cool breeze on my face—there was a sudden freshness in the air as well, driving away the stuffy smoky dustiness of our study. I turned the stick over and found what I was looking for—a crudely drawn seal in the shape of a sylph adorned the knot atop the stick.

  “A wind spell?” I handed the stick back to Hal. “Whatever for?”

  Hal turned back to Lord Ransom, the stick tucked loosely under his arm. “My brother has a very fine sense of magic, but he lacks some knowledge of its history. I believe this is what the Irish call a shillelagh—a weapon which, at one point in their history, was used primarily for the settling of duels.”

  “As for the wind spell,” he continued, turning back to me, “that wou
ld have been to increase the speed with which one could swing the weapon—to deal a more devastating blow.”

  With that, he abruptly spun the stick around one hand; it spun so quickly that it looked like a circle in the air, and Hal brought it down on the stone mantelpiece with a resounding crack. I jumped, and so did Lord Ransom, but Hal simply smiled and handed the stick back to him.

  “The spell’s in quite good condition,” he said. “Especially for its age—given the quality of the seal, I’d mark it as at least two hundred years old.”

  Lord Ransom blinked. “Ah—yes. That would match what my friend told me.”

  “Good.” Hal settled himself back in his chair. “Now, perhaps you can tell me why you’ve really come here.”

  Lord Ransom’s back stiffened, and he began methodically wrapping the stick back in its parcel. “I told you. I’ve come for an appraisal.”

  Hal shook his head, pushing more tobacco into his pipe. “For such a simple task, any one of a dozen magicians in London would do. Even their apprentices might have done it. Why come to me?”

  Lord Ransom did not look up from tying the knots on his parcel. “I simply happened to be in this part of London . . .”

  “No,” Hal said flatly. “There are only two trains from Devon today, and you cannot have been carrying that thing about the city since this morning. You have come directly from the afternoon train—which means that you came to London specifically to see me. Why?”

  Lord Ransom’s hands went still, but he did not look up. “It’s my wife,” he said, after a long silence. “Or rather, my son—at least, it was my wife who insisted that I call upon you.”

  Hal leaned back, tenting his fingers. “Well, what is the trouble?”

  “I’m not certain how to explain it,” Lord Ransom said, sitting up and running his hand over his face. “It’s so damnably strange.”

  “Hm.” Hal closed his eyes, puffing at his pipe. “Then don’t explain it. Simply describe, and I shall judge for myself.”

  Lord Ransom frowned. “Very well. I’ve married again—a girl I met in the Americas. Isabella and my son came home with me earlier this year. That is when the trouble started.”

  He paused, plucking at the strings on his package. “It started with the nursemaid—she told Isabella that she had seen lights around Albert’s crib. Then the child stopped sleeping—he was crying all night. Isabella insisted on moving into the nursery with him—and she says she has seen the lights herself.”

  “What sort of lights?” Hal said. “Did your wife describe them?”

  Lord Ransom gave him an odd look. “I don’t know— just lights, floating about the child’s crib. Isn’t that strange enough?”

  The corners of Hal’s mouth quirked up into a half-smile. “Yes, it is certainly strange.”

  “It’s more than strange,” Lord Ransom said, his brow furrowing. “The child is—he seems to be wasting. He won’t eat, Isabella says. And then—well, two nights ago she says she saw a face in the window.”

  “But that might have been a tramp passing through,” I said. “It needn’t have been anything to do with the lights.”

  Lord Ransom glanced over at me. “It might have been—if tramps could fly. Albert’s nursery is on the second floor.”

  Hal’s lips twitched, and I felt my face redden. “It was only a thought,” I said.

  “Regardless, my wife is quite beside herself about the boy,” Lord Ransom said, turning back to Hal. “I must admit I am rather worried myself. He doesn’t seem to be thriving since we came home. Isabella happened to read about you—and nothing would do but that I should come up to London and fetch you.”

  Hal drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. “I admit it is intriguing.”

  “Then you will help us?” Lord Ransom sat back, his face clearing. “It would be a great relief to have your opinion.”

  “My help you shall have,” Hal said. “Relief—that I cannot promise. I do not know enough to say what has happened nor what will happen. But I shall at least determine whether the child is in any danger.”

  Lord Ransom rubbed his forehead, looking very tired. “That itself would be relief enough. It’s terrible to watch your child suffer and to—to not even understand the cause. Isabella will be very grateful.”

  “Perhaps,” Hal said, grimacing. “Curse-breaking is not a pleasant business, Lord Ransom. If your son has been cursed, you must be prepared for some discomfort.”

  “Discomfort?” Lord Ransom gave a hollow laugh. “If you knew—but then, you will see it for yourself soon enough.”

  He stood, gathering up his parcel. “When may I expect you at Foxfire?”

  “We will follow you down on the morning train,” Hal said. “Will that suffice?”

  Lord Ransom nodded, and Hal showed him to the door. I sat down at my desk and tried without success to return my focus to the book of German tales. I looked up as Hal returned to our study, eager to discuss our new case, but he settled himself back into Father’s chair and leaned back, closing his eyes. After a moment, smoke began billowing about his head, and I knew that he was brooding over something—I would get no conversation from him for the time being.

  “I suppose I’ll just go and get the tickets for the train, shall I?” I said.

  He nodded minutely, frowning at the disturbance, and I left him to his thoughts. Despite the drizzle, I was in good spirits as I made my way to the station. The case sounded interesting enough, and it would be a welcome change from endless days of make-work.

  Having secured the tickets, I returned to our rooms. I found Hal not in the chair where I had left him, but standing behind his desk. The familiar case had been replaced by an equally familiar lockbox. It sat open on the desk, bits of paper spilling out. In his hand, Hal held a plain white card, ornamented only by the curious decoration of a spider web. I could not see the back of it from where I stood, but I knew exactly what it said—I see you. My high spirits vanished like mist; the card was from a person we knew only as T.S.—the person Hal believed might have been responsible for Father’s death.

  I cleared my throat and tossed the tickets down on the desk. Hal blinked and looked up at me, startled.

  “Back already?” he said, then glanced at the clock and frowned. “Or, rather—I hadn’t realized it had grown so late.”

  “Why are you looking at that card?” I said. “Do you think T.S. is behind this?”

  His frown deepened, and he tossed the card back into the lockbox then shut it with a loud snap. “It’s far too early to speculate about such things.”

  “But he may be,” I said. “You must have thought so, or you wouldn’t have taken out his card.”

  He sat down in his chair, running a hand over his face. “I am entertaining the thought, yes. It is passing curious that Lord Ransom—whose father worked so closely with our own—should be suffering from a curse. But, as I say, there is no profit in speculation.”

  “Yes, you always say that.” I sighed. “That’s why you never want to talk about Father, either. Too little information. Too much speculation.”

  He gave me an odd look. “Well, it’s true. We haven’t nearly enough to form a conclusion. There’s no purpose in letting our minds run off down dark alleys.”

  I flung myself down in the chair behind my desk. “But—we have to start somewhere.”

  “Yes.” He took the box down from his desk and shut it in a drawer, effectively closing the subject. “And looking into this matter for Lord Ransom—that is somewhere to start.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  We arrived in Devon the following morning, and were greeted by Lord Ransom’s driver, a craggy-faced man with callused hands who led us over to a pony cart. My face must have shown my surprise, for the man turned and gave me an apologetic look as we clambered into the cart.

  “His Lordship meant to send the aether-carriage,” he said, in low rumbling tones. “But it were acting up again, so you’ll have to make do wi’ me and Dobbin.”


  “It’s just as well,” Hal said, leaning back against the cart. “I quite prefer it, in fact.”

  “Eh, is that so?” The driver’s eyebrows went up. “I thought his Lordship said it was magicians coming.”

  “And so we are,” I said. “Magicians, I mean.”

  “Well, that’s odd, then,” he said, slapping the reins against the pony’s back. “Never met a magician who didn’t want to see the aether-carriage.”

  “Do you meet many magicians?” I said, rubbing my arms against the morning chill.

  “Oh, aye,” the driver said. “Always coming out to have a look at his Lordship’s collection—and to a man, they always want to see the aether-carriage.”

  “Foolish,” Hal muttered around his pipe. “I would wager there are things a hundred times more interesting than any aether-carriage in his Lordship’s collection.”

  “If you say so, sir,” the driver said. “I don’t know anything about it myself.”

  We lapsed into silence after that. Hal leaned back against the cart, arms folded over his chest and pipe smoke curling about his head—he was in one of his brooding moods again. I sat back and watched the countryside as it passed us by. It was a brisk day, with a breeze blowing in off the sea, and the air was bracing and smelled of salt. I pulled in a deep breath, and watched the wide grassy moors against the grey-blue sky.

  There was a subtle shift in the air as we approached Foxfire Manor. The sky darkened, threatening rain, and the pleasant tang of sea-salt disappeared from the air. The air took on a heavy quality, and there was a smell to it—like a cellar shut up too long, all the freshness gone from it. The manor itself sat in the shadow of a fell; the tall stones of Foxfire Tor towered over it like a sentry. At its other side it was bounded by the wide marshes of a mire, which had swallowed many an unwary traveler through the years.

  We were greeted at the front door by a woman who introduced herself as Mrs. Forsythe, his Lordship’s housekeeper. She was a tall, severe woman, with dark hair pulled back tightly from her face and sharp blue eyes. There was a wheezing quality to her breath as she took our coats and led us down the passage and up the tall stone staircase to Lord Ransom’s study, and I wondered if she was ill.